


Training Day

by marourin



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Barely there romance, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Movie, bane is not impressed, john's potty mouth, non-important character dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 08:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marourin/pseuds/marourin
Summary: After the events of TDKR, John still has a long way to go before he's ready to pick up the mantle of the Batman. Lucky for him, he has some help.





	Training Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/gifts).



> For the first ever TDKR exchange! I hope you like it sibilantly!

Training Day

 

Blake hit the mat with a loud thud that drove the air from his lungs, leaving him wheezing as he struggled to breathe. It took a moment before he could roll over onto his knees and push himself up enough to glower at the large, immovable rock that was Bane.

 

Bane; top of the most wanted list.                                                                    

 

Bane; the razer of cities, the terrorist that brought Gotham to its knees, the breaker of the Bat…

 

Bane; the asshole who was gazing back at Blake as placid and unthreatened as a Hindu cow.

 

The bastard didn’t even have the courtesy of looking the slightest bit out of breath despite the fact that Blake’s shirt was plastered to his body with sweat and he was pretty sure he would have to literally roll himself out of bed in the morning like he had every day for a month now.

 

Blake wished he could say that he was here because he had captured the infamous Warlord and rehabilitated him to the side of Truth, Justice, and the American Way, but that would take bullshiting that his balls just weren’t the right size to do. Instead, he was at an impasse with Bane where neither would take a step back from their respective stances, but the no man’s land was impregnable between them. It was bound with the barbed wire and the iron wall of a promise that hung over them, casting a shadow that neither could step over.

 

~

 

In a move of utter idiocy, Blake had decided not to leave Bane to die when he found him half-dead and nearly drowned in the drainage tunnels on one of his nightly patrols. Despite everything he had put Gotham through, Blake had looked at the slumped and broken Warlord and only felt pity as he heard the soft cries of a wounded beast escape the gnarled mess that remained of the mask. He had pulled Bane from the filthy water he had been laying in and for days he brought food, water, and medical supplies down. Sometimes he would just sit across from Bane when he was done redressing the worst of the wounds and listen to the incoherent whimpers and moans.

 

And one day he heard the cocking hammer of a gun behind him as he stepped into the tunnel.

 

“No.”

 

With that one word from Bane, whoever was behind Blake responded by knocking him out cold. 

 

Blake was man enough to admit that he had shrieked loud enough to set off his neighbor’s dog when he came home a couple of days later to see the hulking form of Bane sitting on his thirdhand couch. Luckily, or unluckily, this being Gotham meant no one came to investigate while Blake tried not to have a heart attack as he scanned desperately for a weapon to defend himself with.

 

He stilled when Bane raised a massive hand, his lizard brain kicking in and freezing him like a well-trained dog to the unspoken command.

 

“I mean you no harm, former Detective Robin John Blake.”

 

All Blake could think about was that he should have turned Bane face down in the storm drain and maybe he would have lived to see 30.

 

“I am here to repay a debt.”

 

Blake’s muscles slowly unclenched as the hand rested back on Bane’s knee. 

 

“I am in a...unique predicament with you right now. As the heir to Bruce Wayne-”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“Let’s not pretend.” The look Bane gave him was condescending enough to make anger start to wipe some of the sheer terror from his body. A theatrical sweep of Bane’s hand went out to the equipment that Blake had left on his duct taped dining room table before he went on his milk run. “As the heir to Bruce Wayne, it makes us natural enemies. Yet...I am not unaware nor ungrateful of the aid you provided me.”

 

“Yeah, something I’m really regretting now,” Blake muttered.

 

He caught the crinkle at the corner of Bane’s eyes and his heart thumped a little uneasily.

 

“Unfortunately for you, this is the course we are on now.”

 

“So what does that make you, my magic Genie here to grant me three wishes?”

 

Bane’s brow creased just a little. “Do you speak of the marid djinn? If you wished to pick the method of your death, I would oblige you. I, however, would find it a more prudent use of my debt in keeping you alive.” 

 

“So what?” Blake crossed his arms across his chest. He was finally getting his pulse under control, reminding himself that he had watched this man cry like a baby. “You’re going to follow me around and be Costner to my Houston?” He saw the crease deepen. “Bodyguard.”

 

There was a metallic huff of air and Blake couldn’t help but notice that the mask was fixed now. “I have better things to do with my time. Have you ever heard the proverb ‘teach a man to fish’, Detective?”

 

~

 

And that’s why Blake was now groaning as he made himself get back to his feet, his fists up as he came at Bane again for round five. He was repeatedly told that Bane was saving his life every time he was knocked on his ass, that he was being corrected off a very short course off a very steep cliff. That he was a fool to think he could don the mantle with the training the GCPD had provided him. That he was a fool for even trying to save Gotham. That he was a very, very foolish man and that his hard head was the one thing he had going for him.

 

“I honestly don’t know if you’re trying to save me or you’re getting your rocks off killing me very slowly,” Blake muttered from the ground, glaring balefully up at Bane as the shiny bald head loomed over him.

 

“This wouldn’t be a very efficient way of ending your life,” Bane said blandly as he reached down, pulling Blake back to his feet with the ease of one picking up a very small kitten. “Your predecessor had years of training on his side. Somehow, I will have to ingrain the same training in you quick enough to keep you from getting yourself killed.”

 

“You keep saying that but I’m gonna get killed because you pulverize me every time we do this,” Blake muttered, grunting as Bane’s heavy hand pressed down on his shoulder to deepen his horse stance.

 

“You only have your poor conditioning to blame.” Bane left to rummage around the warehouse-cum-training area before standing in front of Blake with a cinder block in each hand. “Hands out, we’ll work on your endurance now.”

 

“Fuck you so hard, Bane.” Blake’s legs trembled under the additional weight.

 

Two hours later, Blake would have flung the cinder blocks at Bane’s head if he only could lift his arms. He greedily gulped down the water that Bane gave him at the end of the session and he sagged back on the ground, his exhausted muscles tapping out for the night. He watched Bane watch him for a long moment.

 

“Why are you helping me, anyways? I mean aren’t you afraid of me coming for your ass?”

 

The scornful look was enough to make him wish he could get up at the moment and plant his foot in Bane’s face.

 

“A life for a life. There are some codes men should live by.”

 

Blake watched as Bane sat himself down—with a low groan of effort—on a packing crate that squeaked in protest. “It would be in poor form if I let you get yourself killed on Bruce Wayne’s mission without preparing you at least a little.”

 

“Yeah but you think I’m an idiot for even doing this in the first place.” Blake could finally push himself into a sitting position and he rolled his sore shoulders.

 

“Yes. And you have elected not to phone in our nightly rendezvous to the Commissioner.” 

 

Blake’s mouth clicked shut and the silence stretched between them for a long moment. He rolled his shoulders again and he reached up to rub one, trying to work out the cramp that holding out cinderblocks for two hours had put in them. 

 

“Who’s Talia, anyways?”

 

The silence suddenly felt dangerous and Blake felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. His eyes darted back to Bane instinctively, taking in the foreboding look on his face. He had a moment of fear before indignation washed it back down. “Hey, you’re the one who kept saying it when we were in the tunnels.”

 

Bane was on his feet now, reaching for the non-descript hoodie he wore that somehow let him disappear on the streets of Gotham.

 

“Bane.”

 

“Good night, Detective.”

 

Blake couldn’t even hear the departing footsteps as Bane left the warehouse, quiet as a shadow.

 

~

 

The zap of his escrima sticks sent up a shower of sparks as Goon Number 5 swung a crowbar up to block Blake’s blow at his head. Blake admitted that maybe some of Bane’s training helped a little as he landed a solid kick to the man’s middle, sending him flying back in a manner that would make Leonidas proud. 

 

He twisted out the way of a wild shot fired in his direction and he used the momentum to scale the side of the shipping container and jump off to come crashing down on Goon Number 6’s chest, putting him down for the count next to Number 5 and 4.

 

Now where was…

 

He hurled one of the escrima sticks at Number 7’s retreating back and he was rewarded with a loud crackle of electricity as contact was made and down went 7.

 

He dusted off his hands and he surveyed his work, the pile of groaning bodies decidedly more impressive than it would have been just a couple of months ago, admittedly. He retrieved his escrima stick and started to work on the lock of the shipping container. He could hear the pounding of small fists against the walls, the shout of young voices pleading for help in the universal manner that transcended language.

 

The lock picking work? Well that was a John Blake original. No Bruce nor Bane to thank for that bit of knowledge.

 

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he reassured as he opened the door to the pale, stricken faces inside.

 

He saw the hope in their eyes, the gratitude, and then the fear. That, more than the screams that followed was the only thing that had him turning around just in time to meet the crowbar to the head that had him staggering, his ears ringing. The crowbar crashed into his ribs next, the kevlar he was wearing not enough to keep him from going down like a sack of bricks. He tried to fight his way out, to get just a little room to recuperate and make the world stop spinning long enough to launch a counterattack but the crowbar hit his head again and he thought hysterically that Bane was right. That this was a suicide mission and he wasn’t ready for the mantle Bruce had given him. He was going to get his head beaten in by a nameless goon at Gotham Harbor before he even had the chance to make a difference in his short-lived stint at vigilantism. 

 

And then, a large shape loomed over them. For a moment, Blake thought it was Bruce, the Batman returned to deliver justice on the criminals of Gotham. But there was no flap of a cape, no zip of a grappling hook, no warning. Darkness descended on them, quiet as a whisper. There wasn’t even a scream, just a horrible dry crack and the nameless goon was laying next to Blake, his head facing the wrong direction.

 

His vision swam as he looked up at the stark shadow that Bane made standing over him.

 

You know what? Fuck consciousness.

 

~

 

The next time Blake awoke he was in his own bed and he had what had to be the worst hangover of his life.

 

He heard the creaking of his floor boards and a large, steady hand was helping him into a seated position that made his head throb for a moment. He squinted up at Bane, taking a few moments to remember what had happened.

 

“Are the kids…” he croaked.

 

“They ran the moment you were knocked down.” Bane’s voice was as blithe as ever, lilting even. “They are fine.”

 

There was another moment of silence as Blake remembered more of that night, remembering how he thought he was going to die. Remembering the dry crack of a broken neck.

 

He looked down at his hands.

 

“I guess that means your whole debt thing’s cleared, huh?”

 

Bane looked almost thoughtful as he handed a glass of cool water to Blake.

 

“I don’t suppose I’ve done a very good job of preparing you if I had to save you.”

 

Blake swallowed thickly and he masked it by taking a deep drink of water, his throat suddenly parched.

 

“I expect you to be at the warehouse tomorrow. On time.”

 

Blake looked at Bane, a little surprised. “But I’m still concussed.”

 

“And I will teach you how to fight with a head injury so next time I will not need to save you.” 

 

There was that crinkle at the corners of Bane’s eyes again. As expressive as if he had a visible mouth to smile with.

 

“You’re a real dick, you know that?” If Blake’s voice was a little low, a little rough, Bane didn’t mention it.

 

That big, cool hand gently cupped the side of his face and a calloused thumb ran over a tender spot on his temple. Blake leaned into the touch, his eyes lowering as he just took comfort from the gesture. 

 

He’d have to deal with the shit that was Bane murdering a man to save him and just Bane, still a terrorist, still a killer, but Bane who also forged him every day on the training mat until he could be the defender that Gotham needed. Bane who still thought Gotham was worthless and that he was mad for trying to save it. Bane who disdained John’s love of pizza and chicken wings and thought he was soft in body and mind.

 

He could deal with that tomorrow. Tonight, Bane’s hand was large and strong and gentle. Blake covered it with his own, his fingers slowly twining with Bane’s.

 

Tomorrow was training day.

 

Tonight was something else.

 

End


End file.
